On our honeymoon, the Captain and I discovered this bookstand. So I was excited to find this post on the books that fit it. Apparently huge books existed in part so that monks could congregate and read together, which I think it just incredibly fun.
Showing posts with label Portugal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Portugal. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
All the Better to See You
On our honeymoon, the Captain and I discovered this bookstand. So I was excited to find this post on the books that fit it. Apparently huge books existed in part so that monks could congregate and read together, which I think it just incredibly fun.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
Allusion Five: The First Amendment
I offer you the fifth and final installment in my Portugal series:
I suppose it is natural to understand the new by comparison with the familiar. (Hence Portugal story-telling through allusions.) I recognized there how much I was viewing things as an American. Our first morning, we grabbed an “ethnocentric breakfast” from Starbucks -- apparently coffee in paper cups is an American thing and not done in Portugal. And while I came away thinking that coffee in real mugs is a very civilized thing, that was our first day and we slept in and needed coffee and to make our tour on time. At that point, the idea that I couldn’t walk into a coffee shop and get a cup to carry out was a little bizarre.
Coffee was not the most distinctive way that I was American, though some of the other differences helped me understand “American” a little better. We learned from Day 1 that Portugal is very in touch with its history… and its history is older than anything we know. In 1755, an earthquake shook Lisbon and destroyed an ancient city -- at a time when our oldest cities were still rather nascent.
I’m used to playing tourist at monuments, museums, and parks, not churches, palaces, and castles. But when your history stretches back a thousand years, those are the places to see. The first stone cathedral we visited was in the Lisbon cathedral, which impressed me with its cavernous interior. The Captain, having seen (and sung in) European stone churches before, was less easily awed. And two days later I discovered why.
The monastery of St. Jerome in Lisbon was built by Henry the Navigator as a thank you for the safe return of an expedition. We came straight from the tiny village houses of Fatima into the stone and gold and marble richness of the Prince’s thank you. My mind flew in several vaguely formed directions at once:
*The disparity! The contrast of royalty to peasant, rich to poor. I understood the Protestant Reformation and other rebellions against the Church so much better. This point was brought home even more when we visited the Church of São Francisco in Porto, which was covered in 900 pounds of gold leaf.
*Wow -- I wish I could thank God like that. It’s hard to imagine having the kind of gratitude, let alone the resources, to give a mountain-sized church to God. I could use a lesson in gratitude. My thank-you gift to Him tends to be something more akin to a Glory-Be, or a decade of the Rosary, or Mass if I’m really ambitious.
*The First Amendment. Not only was the church built by a prince, but by-gone royalty lined the transepts, born in marble tombs on the backs of marble elephants. As I got a clearer picture of the intertwined nature of Church and State, I began to see a tad better what our forefathers did not want -- in terms of both religion and royalty.
The same musings on the foundation of our country struck me when we visited the National Coach Museum. The Captain had much more enthusiasm about it than I did -- I thought I was going to the medieval equivalent of a car show. I misunderstood the purpose of the coaches. Functionally, of course, they took royalty from point A to point B. But the purpose… to show off. So the coaches were covered with elaborate woodwork, gold leaf, and detailed paintings and upholstered in velvet. The purpose was beauty, but obviously more than beauty -- to impress upon the viewer the wealth and status of the owner.
The former stock-exchange, the Stock Exchange Palace, incidentally, was a way for the country to say the same thing. The whole building was impressive, but one room in particular, the Arabic Room, was created to make sure foreign visitors had a visceral experience of the wealth of the nation. The brightly-colored room glistens with Moorish-inspired detailed patterns of red and blue, outlined with gold leaf.
The whole impression of these structures was to overwhelm in a way that none of our stark, Romanesque national monuments possibly could -- we were built on escaping royalty. A bunch of idealistic, democratic rebels.
I hate to give America the final word in a series about Portugal. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here is a photographic offering to end our adventures:
Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.
~1st Amendment to the United States Constituion
I suppose it is natural to understand the new by comparison with the familiar. (Hence Portugal story-telling through allusions.) I recognized there how much I was viewing things as an American. Our first morning, we grabbed an “ethnocentric breakfast” from Starbucks -- apparently coffee in paper cups is an American thing and not done in Portugal. And while I came away thinking that coffee in real mugs is a very civilized thing, that was our first day and we slept in and needed coffee and to make our tour on time. At that point, the idea that I couldn’t walk into a coffee shop and get a cup to carry out was a little bizarre.
Coffee was not the most distinctive way that I was American, though some of the other differences helped me understand “American” a little better. We learned from Day 1 that Portugal is very in touch with its history… and its history is older than anything we know. In 1755, an earthquake shook Lisbon and destroyed an ancient city -- at a time when our oldest cities were still rather nascent.
I’m used to playing tourist at monuments, museums, and parks, not churches, palaces, and castles. But when your history stretches back a thousand years, those are the places to see. The first stone cathedral we visited was in the Lisbon cathedral, which impressed me with its cavernous interior. The Captain, having seen (and sung in) European stone churches before, was less easily awed. And two days later I discovered why.
The monastery of St. Jerome in Lisbon was built by Henry the Navigator as a thank you for the safe return of an expedition. We came straight from the tiny village houses of Fatima into the stone and gold and marble richness of the Prince’s thank you. My mind flew in several vaguely formed directions at once:
*The disparity! The contrast of royalty to peasant, rich to poor. I understood the Protestant Reformation and other rebellions against the Church so much better. This point was brought home even more when we visited the Church of São Francisco in Porto, which was covered in 900 pounds of gold leaf.
*Wow -- I wish I could thank God like that. It’s hard to imagine having the kind of gratitude, let alone the resources, to give a mountain-sized church to God. I could use a lesson in gratitude. My thank-you gift to Him tends to be something more akin to a Glory-Be, or a decade of the Rosary, or Mass if I’m really ambitious.
*The First Amendment. Not only was the church built by a prince, but by-gone royalty lined the transepts, born in marble tombs on the backs of marble elephants. As I got a clearer picture of the intertwined nature of Church and State, I began to see a tad better what our forefathers did not want -- in terms of both religion and royalty.
The same musings on the foundation of our country struck me when we visited the National Coach Museum. The Captain had much more enthusiasm about it than I did -- I thought I was going to the medieval equivalent of a car show. I misunderstood the purpose of the coaches. Functionally, of course, they took royalty from point A to point B. But the purpose… to show off. So the coaches were covered with elaborate woodwork, gold leaf, and detailed paintings and upholstered in velvet. The purpose was beauty, but obviously more than beauty -- to impress upon the viewer the wealth and status of the owner.
The former stock-exchange, the Stock Exchange Palace, incidentally, was a way for the country to say the same thing. The whole building was impressive, but one room in particular, the Arabic Room, was created to make sure foreign visitors had a visceral experience of the wealth of the nation. The brightly-colored room glistens with Moorish-inspired detailed patterns of red and blue, outlined with gold leaf.
The whole impression of these structures was to overwhelm in a way that none of our stark, Romanesque national monuments possibly could -- we were built on escaping royalty. A bunch of idealistic, democratic rebels.
I hate to give America the final word in a series about Portugal. Since a picture is worth a thousand words, here is a photographic offering to end our adventures:
 |
| Portugal, the Atlantic Ocean, and a castle, as seen from a palace |
Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Allusion Four: Harry Potter
I refuse to help the craze by linking to anything... if, somehow, you don't know Harry Potter (not sure which among my 3.14 loyal readers would not, but it's possible), a quick Google search will fill you in.
When we left Lisbon, midway through the trip, we took a bus north to a land called Porto. When we checked into our hotel in Porto, the receptionist pulled out a map to show us must-sees. Among them was a cafe which, she told us, was where J.K. Rowling penned Harry Potter’s first chapter. She was married to a Portuguese man at the time, and Porto claims the inspiration for the novels.
I am willing to give it to them -- though, having never visited London, the verdict might be premature. The magical Harry-Potter places include:
The Porto train station. The station itself is a huge white stone building on the outside. The inside is covered with murals in blue tile -- called azulejos -- depicting historical and religious scenes. The walls are covered with kings and queens and knights and peasants and farmers and saints and statues and little girls processing. Through the vast arches waiting the trains, which just burst through the mountainside -- the tracks lead in and out of a stone tunnel. We took a cruise up the Douro River to visit wine country (and visited some of Europe’s oldest and highest lock systems) and returned on a train to this station. As we chugged along the dark countryside, I agreed with the assessment that this was the Hogwarts Express.
The Majestic Cafe. When people state that Rowling started writing Harry Potter on a napkin in a European cafe, I picture a small outdoor patio that blends the historic and hipster into one perfect cappuccino. Instead, the Captain and I found a noble tea-room serving high tea in china pots with scones silver baskets and cloth napkins. The walls were tall mirrors lined with golden woodwork and topped with cherubs. The table-conversations rose slightly above a murmur and were accompanied by live music from a grand piano in the back. I honored the occasion with tea and scones -- accompanied by cream for the scones, something that fascinated the Captain.
The bookstore, Livraria Lello e Irmão. When we were told to find the bookstore that inspired Harry Potter and saw its icon on our tourist map, I expected a grand library dominating a street corner. Instead, we walked by the innocuous storefront at least twice before we realized it was the building we sought. The inside, however, did not disappoint. Books, of course, lined every inch of the store -- and a metal track allowed a cart like a mining train to transport books around the floor. And in the center -- a sweeping, doubled staircase, painted brilliant red next to rich wood, leading up to the second floor. The walls hosted paintings and detailed woodwork. And, of course, the books! The Captain found it slightly less fascinating than I did -- he is still learning how to drag me out of bookstores.
When we left Lisbon, midway through the trip, we took a bus north to a land called Porto. When we checked into our hotel in Porto, the receptionist pulled out a map to show us must-sees. Among them was a cafe which, she told us, was where J.K. Rowling penned Harry Potter’s first chapter. She was married to a Portuguese man at the time, and Porto claims the inspiration for the novels.
I am willing to give it to them -- though, having never visited London, the verdict might be premature. The magical Harry-Potter places include:
The Porto train station. The station itself is a huge white stone building on the outside. The inside is covered with murals in blue tile -- called azulejos -- depicting historical and religious scenes. The walls are covered with kings and queens and knights and peasants and farmers and saints and statues and little girls processing. Through the vast arches waiting the trains, which just burst through the mountainside -- the tracks lead in and out of a stone tunnel. We took a cruise up the Douro River to visit wine country (and visited some of Europe’s oldest and highest lock systems) and returned on a train to this station. As we chugged along the dark countryside, I agreed with the assessment that this was the Hogwarts Express.
The Majestic Cafe. When people state that Rowling started writing Harry Potter on a napkin in a European cafe, I picture a small outdoor patio that blends the historic and hipster into one perfect cappuccino. Instead, the Captain and I found a noble tea-room serving high tea in china pots with scones silver baskets and cloth napkins. The walls were tall mirrors lined with golden woodwork and topped with cherubs. The table-conversations rose slightly above a murmur and were accompanied by live music from a grand piano in the back. I honored the occasion with tea and scones -- accompanied by cream for the scones, something that fascinated the Captain.
The bookstore, Livraria Lello e Irmão. When we were told to find the bookstore that inspired Harry Potter and saw its icon on our tourist map, I expected a grand library dominating a street corner. Instead, we walked by the innocuous storefront at least twice before we realized it was the building we sought. The inside, however, did not disappoint. Books, of course, lined every inch of the store -- and a metal track allowed a cart like a mining train to transport books around the floor. And in the center -- a sweeping, doubled staircase, painted brilliant red next to rich wood, leading up to the second floor. The walls hosted paintings and detailed woodwork. And, of course, the books! The Captain found it slightly less fascinating than I did -- he is still learning how to drag me out of bookstores.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Allusion Three: The Day the Sun Danced
And now, the moment you've all been waiting for: Fatima!
I’m not sure this counts as an allusion, and, if it does, it is certainly not clever. The Day the Sun Danced is a children’s animated movie about the miracle of Fatima and the apparitions of Our Lady to the three shepherd children. If you don’t know about it, I would suggested more research than this video, but I would also recommend getting in touch with your inner child by starting here.
The Captain and I grabbed a bus from Lisbon to Fatima our second morning in Portugal. We started the morning with breakfast at a local coffee shop, a routine that quickly became one of my favorite things about Portugal. The dreary, drippy day (that got worse, rather than better as we approached Fatima) made me grateful for the water resistant jacket that the Captain had purchased to keep his bride warm. We trudged through the drizzle from the bus stop to the shrine, eager to find the information center, which I hoped was heated.
We found neither information nor heat, but instead a vast, cold basilica with an auditorium feel and an overwhelmingly gold mosaic. We did not linger long. Our next step took us to an underground series of chapels, all of which were closed, except for an Adoration chapel in the same empty, gold style as the basilica. Jesus was there, which made it awesome, but I was struggling with disappointed hopes for Fatima when we left the chapel.
We at last found a map in an otherwise barren building, which pointed us toward “Informacioãos.” That tiny building provided information only in the form of an English version of the map we already held. So we used it to explore.
Probably the greatest surprise I had in all of Portugal were those first couple hours in Fatima. The whole shrine felt… smoothed over. The cold basilica sat at one side of a huge esplanade, a vast stretch of concrete, asphalt, and limestone that stretched to a mountain of stairs, leading up to a covered outdoor altar and an older basilica. We gave ourselves a chilly tour of that basilica, a stone church built in the 1950s, and the resting place of the children who saw Mary.
Next, we set our sights on two meals -- lunch and then Mass. In between the two, we stopped at the Chapel of Apparitions, a three-sided glass and wood structure built to protect the small white house erected not long after the apparitions. We were surrounded by a few other pilgrims -- hearty, desperate, or determined, to be here in the grey. Praying there, so near to Our Lady, her presence so real, my heart broke. I know people come from all over for all reasons, but the ones that were most palpable were those from burdened hearts, overflowing to their mother -- people bringing their deep sorrows from this valley of tears. I was rather depressed as we returned to the old basilica for Mass.
Every Mass we attended in Portugal was, unsurprisingly, in Portuguese. My lack of understanding led to contemplative Masses. I brought before Our Lady all the aching I had felt in the Chapel of Apparitions. She took the aches… and gave me back her love. Her love that had led her aching heart, on behalf of her Son’s aching heart, to these particular people in this particular land, with one particular message -- that stretched across the world to spread her love and her Son’s love to people beyond that land. To touch even my heart in this valley of tears.
After Mass, I was much better disposed to the Shrine. The Captain saw people coming out of a building -- and since we were having trouble determining what was locked and what was open, we swam upstream into the building. There, I negotiated with a nun who spoke four or five languages in the only one we had in common (Spanish) to obtain tickets for a tour of the “exhibition.” I had no idea what to expect -- it turns out there were rooms filled with votive offerings left and sent to Our Lady of Fatima, from popes and pilgrims. I wished I had something to leave her.
By now, it was getting dark and we still needed to find our hotel. So we bought a couple candles and lit them in intercession for all the intentions that had been sent with us to Fatima.
Day Two of Fatima brought us to the countryside, about a mile from the shrine. We took a cab, whose driver was named John Paul -- “John Paul III,” he joked. This day, the sun favored us. The chill of the air and the damp of the dew, under the cloudless sky, made the morning feel new and refreshing. Limestone paths lead us into groves of olive trees, speckled with holmoaks and rock. We found a statue of Our Lady, marking where she appeared once to the children of Fatima, as well as statues of the Angel of Peace and the children, where he taught them a prayer of reparation and gave them communion. Out here, the world was at peace and so quiet that I felt as if I would hear Mary’s voice if I stayed and listen long enough. We had the paths to ourselves, with only orange breasted birds for company.
The paths eventually lead us into the village of Aljustrel, where the children had lived. We found another site of an angelic apparition, where the Angel of Portugal warned the children that they were going to suffer greatly, and the houses where they grew up -- tiny, simple buildings that made them somehow more real as children than anything I had seen or read thus far.
By the time, other pilgrims had started to appear. As the world finished waking up, we reluctantly left the corner of the world where, once, the sun danced.
I’m not sure this counts as an allusion, and, if it does, it is certainly not clever. The Day the Sun Danced is a children’s animated movie about the miracle of Fatima and the apparitions of Our Lady to the three shepherd children. If you don’t know about it, I would suggested more research than this video, but I would also recommend getting in touch with your inner child by starting here.
The Captain and I grabbed a bus from Lisbon to Fatima our second morning in Portugal. We started the morning with breakfast at a local coffee shop, a routine that quickly became one of my favorite things about Portugal. The dreary, drippy day (that got worse, rather than better as we approached Fatima) made me grateful for the water resistant jacket that the Captain had purchased to keep his bride warm. We trudged through the drizzle from the bus stop to the shrine, eager to find the information center, which I hoped was heated.
We found neither information nor heat, but instead a vast, cold basilica with an auditorium feel and an overwhelmingly gold mosaic. We did not linger long. Our next step took us to an underground series of chapels, all of which were closed, except for an Adoration chapel in the same empty, gold style as the basilica. Jesus was there, which made it awesome, but I was struggling with disappointed hopes for Fatima when we left the chapel.
We at last found a map in an otherwise barren building, which pointed us toward “Informacioãos.” That tiny building provided information only in the form of an English version of the map we already held. So we used it to explore.
Probably the greatest surprise I had in all of Portugal were those first couple hours in Fatima. The whole shrine felt… smoothed over. The cold basilica sat at one side of a huge esplanade, a vast stretch of concrete, asphalt, and limestone that stretched to a mountain of stairs, leading up to a covered outdoor altar and an older basilica. We gave ourselves a chilly tour of that basilica, a stone church built in the 1950s, and the resting place of the children who saw Mary.
Next, we set our sights on two meals -- lunch and then Mass. In between the two, we stopped at the Chapel of Apparitions, a three-sided glass and wood structure built to protect the small white house erected not long after the apparitions. We were surrounded by a few other pilgrims -- hearty, desperate, or determined, to be here in the grey. Praying there, so near to Our Lady, her presence so real, my heart broke. I know people come from all over for all reasons, but the ones that were most palpable were those from burdened hearts, overflowing to their mother -- people bringing their deep sorrows from this valley of tears. I was rather depressed as we returned to the old basilica for Mass.
Every Mass we attended in Portugal was, unsurprisingly, in Portuguese. My lack of understanding led to contemplative Masses. I brought before Our Lady all the aching I had felt in the Chapel of Apparitions. She took the aches… and gave me back her love. Her love that had led her aching heart, on behalf of her Son’s aching heart, to these particular people in this particular land, with one particular message -- that stretched across the world to spread her love and her Son’s love to people beyond that land. To touch even my heart in this valley of tears.
After Mass, I was much better disposed to the Shrine. The Captain saw people coming out of a building -- and since we were having trouble determining what was locked and what was open, we swam upstream into the building. There, I negotiated with a nun who spoke four or five languages in the only one we had in common (Spanish) to obtain tickets for a tour of the “exhibition.” I had no idea what to expect -- it turns out there were rooms filled with votive offerings left and sent to Our Lady of Fatima, from popes and pilgrims. I wished I had something to leave her.
By now, it was getting dark and we still needed to find our hotel. So we bought a couple candles and lit them in intercession for all the intentions that had been sent with us to Fatima.
Day Two of Fatima brought us to the countryside, about a mile from the shrine. We took a cab, whose driver was named John Paul -- “John Paul III,” he joked. This day, the sun favored us. The chill of the air and the damp of the dew, under the cloudless sky, made the morning feel new and refreshing. Limestone paths lead us into groves of olive trees, speckled with holmoaks and rock. We found a statue of Our Lady, marking where she appeared once to the children of Fatima, as well as statues of the Angel of Peace and the children, where he taught them a prayer of reparation and gave them communion. Out here, the world was at peace and so quiet that I felt as if I would hear Mary’s voice if I stayed and listen long enough. We had the paths to ourselves, with only orange breasted birds for company.
The paths eventually lead us into the village of Aljustrel, where the children had lived. We found another site of an angelic apparition, where the Angel of Portugal warned the children that they were going to suffer greatly, and the houses where they grew up -- tiny, simple buildings that made them somehow more real as children than anything I had seen or read thus far.
By the time, other pilgrims had started to appear. As the world finished waking up, we reluctantly left the corner of the world where, once, the sun danced.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Allusion Two: XKCD
Take a moment and revel in the fact that this allusion is host to another allusion. It’s like a mirror reflecting a mirror.
Okay, now picture this: you are standing on a stone wall, blocked from the edge of the mountain by massive ramparts that seem both as sturdy as the earth and shockingly sparse as a barrier between you and the open air that whips around your face and hair. You can see for miles in every direction. Look one way and forested land brings you to the beginning of the ocean, which eventually, in something resembling a horizon, falls off into the sky. Look the other way and you see hills and forests and towns sprawling out as far as your eye can manage. Look down and you see a lush flowering of trees dotted with chateaux, monasteries, and palaces. (Just don’t look behind you, or the German tourist doing the can-can over the edge might change the source of your breathlessness from exhilaration to fear.)
The castle was built into the mountain nearly a thousand years ago by the Moors. Unlike the kings who used this place as an artistic royal hang-out in the 1800s, the builders of the castle didn’t want the beauty of the view. They could see potential enemies approaching from any and all directions. As romantic as an “ancient castle on top of a windswept mountain” sounds, the structure was built to be the opposite of romantic: a purely utilitarian defensive endeavor. Both the Captain and I have visions of people plummeting to their deaths -- including the German can-can girl. We are shocked and delighted by the lack of ropes, rails, and warnings.
When we visited one of the palaces of the village -- not one of those dotting the forest below us, but one facing us on an opposing hilltop -- we found a similar child-like delight. As fascinating as it was to wander through the ornate rooms of the palace and imagine myself living in the lady-in-waiting’s chamber (less rich, but more charming than the queen’s), I loved best the climbing into (decorative) turrets and creeping along the walkways that hug the outside of the palace, dropping off into the brush clinging to the mountainside.
We are also delighted, in an unromantic way, by the wind turbines that speckle the tops of many of the hills we can see. We took a train ride out to the castle village of Sintra, as well as a few bus trips across Portugal, and we found the wind turbines everywhere. Not enough that they feel ubiquitous or overwhelming, but enough that they are part of the landscape -- surprisingly modern in a country that is still very much in touch with the beauty of its history.
On each bus trip we took -- a shorter one to and from Fatima and a longer one to and from Porto -- I watch the wind turbines, expecting them to come alive. I wanted to bring both -- the wind turbines and the bus -- back to the US. The public transportation, inter and intra-city, tended to be both affordable and convenient. We took trains, buses, boats, and cabs for all ten days and never once wished for a rental car. In fact, the driving patterns were difficult to follow. And the parking patterns even more so. More than once, we were almost hit by a parking car whose driver decided to jump his car onto the sidewalk and back up until it seemed like a good patch of sidewalk on which to leave his car.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Allusion One: The Arm of the Starfish
Madeline L’Engle is one of my favorite authors. Besides the fact that I enjoy her writing and stories, she has a talent for setting her worlds just next to ours -- everything is exactly the same and exactly right, except that she adds in a tad of history or geography that is not quite real. Her characters all inhabit this world with six degrees of separation, giving it a realistic texture. This particular novel is set in Portugal and has a chase scene that winds through the streets, museums, and monasteries of Lisbon. So, of course, when I found myself running through the streets, museums, and monasteries of Lisbon, I thought of Adam and Joshua.
Two things from the book stuck out in my memory. First, that Portuguese is a difficult language to learn, even if you know Spanish. It was a true God-send the amount of English that had permeated the culture in Portugal. Most young people we encountered spoke English at least passibly, some very well. We learned please and thank you and a very few other words before reaching Portugal, but they have a whole bunch of sounds that don’t resemble English or Spanish. So I ended up being able to read it enough to get by, to understand it enough to feel like I almost should be able to know something, and to speak it enough to look like a fool.
One of my favorite linguistic encounters came with a nun in Fatima. We wanted to go on a tour of the gift exhibition (they display votive gifts that people have left for Our Lady of Fatima). We asked the nun at the desk, “Fala ingles?” She did not, but offered us French, Italian, and Spanish as alternatives to Portuguese. So I got the information for the tour in Spanish, which was clearly not a native tongue for either of us.
My next favorite linguistic encounter was with a taxi driver who spoke no English. He was clearly a boisterous and friendly man, however. The Captain pointed to a map to show where we wanted to go -- “Oh, monasterio -- Geronimos!” He then began a conversation about how cold it was outside. It contained more laughter than substantial communication. When we approached our destination, he pointed out to us where we wanted to eat pastries and coffee as well as how to get to another historical site nearby -- all with hand gestures, sound effects, and our half-dozen words of Portuguese.
The second aspect of Portugal that stuck out to me from L’Engle’s book was the warm, light, airy feel of the country. This feeling was partly true. The warm is a thing. We only had temperatures in the mid-50s, but a few people we met assured us that this was cold -- January weather. Which means that plants stay alive because there is little, if any, frost. Flowers were still bravely in bloom, oranges were ripening on trees, and markets had planters of herbs springing into the walkways. The wind whipped away whatever heat might make it out of our (wind-proof) jackets, but the sun reassured us that it was not as cold as we thought.
As for the lightness and the airiness… we were in cities and they felt like cities -- just with narrower roads (and sidewalks) than we were used to. And many of the roads and sidewalks were limestone cobbles -- prettier than pavement at home, but worse on ankles that bricks. I saw many many women braving them in high heels, which seemed to be a very particular talent. In both Lisbon and Porto (the two cities we got to know), we embarked on lengthy walking tours across this sidewalk and saw houses in an array of light colors. Many sported the colored tile that is a hallmark of Portuguese architecture. Almost all were roofed in red clay tiles. So while the city seemed city-ish when walking through it, when looked at from above or afar, almost every Portuguese town or city we passed looked light and airy.
I want to reread The Arm of the Starfish and see which monastery hosts the end of the chase scene. We visited one monastery in Lisbon and looked at one from afar. The monastery was a huge, ancient stone building that held ornate religious art and the earthly remains of long-gone monarchs. The tabernacle was large enough that Jesus’ earthly form could have been inside it, holding His cross -- and it still would have looked too big to do the job. But I’ll get into more details about monarchs and monasteries in another allusion. (Teaser: the First Amendment.)
Two things from the book stuck out in my memory. First, that Portuguese is a difficult language to learn, even if you know Spanish. It was a true God-send the amount of English that had permeated the culture in Portugal. Most young people we encountered spoke English at least passibly, some very well. We learned please and thank you and a very few other words before reaching Portugal, but they have a whole bunch of sounds that don’t resemble English or Spanish. So I ended up being able to read it enough to get by, to understand it enough to feel like I almost should be able to know something, and to speak it enough to look like a fool.
One of my favorite linguistic encounters came with a nun in Fatima. We wanted to go on a tour of the gift exhibition (they display votive gifts that people have left for Our Lady of Fatima). We asked the nun at the desk, “Fala ingles?” She did not, but offered us French, Italian, and Spanish as alternatives to Portuguese. So I got the information for the tour in Spanish, which was clearly not a native tongue for either of us.
My next favorite linguistic encounter was with a taxi driver who spoke no English. He was clearly a boisterous and friendly man, however. The Captain pointed to a map to show where we wanted to go -- “Oh, monasterio -- Geronimos!” He then began a conversation about how cold it was outside. It contained more laughter than substantial communication. When we approached our destination, he pointed out to us where we wanted to eat pastries and coffee as well as how to get to another historical site nearby -- all with hand gestures, sound effects, and our half-dozen words of Portuguese.
The second aspect of Portugal that stuck out to me from L’Engle’s book was the warm, light, airy feel of the country. This feeling was partly true. The warm is a thing. We only had temperatures in the mid-50s, but a few people we met assured us that this was cold -- January weather. Which means that plants stay alive because there is little, if any, frost. Flowers were still bravely in bloom, oranges were ripening on trees, and markets had planters of herbs springing into the walkways. The wind whipped away whatever heat might make it out of our (wind-proof) jackets, but the sun reassured us that it was not as cold as we thought.
As for the lightness and the airiness… we were in cities and they felt like cities -- just with narrower roads (and sidewalks) than we were used to. And many of the roads and sidewalks were limestone cobbles -- prettier than pavement at home, but worse on ankles that bricks. I saw many many women braving them in high heels, which seemed to be a very particular talent. In both Lisbon and Porto (the two cities we got to know), we embarked on lengthy walking tours across this sidewalk and saw houses in an array of light colors. Many sported the colored tile that is a hallmark of Portuguese architecture. Almost all were roofed in red clay tiles. So while the city seemed city-ish when walking through it, when looked at from above or afar, almost every Portuguese town or city we passed looked light and airy.
I want to reread The Arm of the Starfish and see which monastery hosts the end of the chase scene. We visited one monastery in Lisbon and looked at one from afar. The monastery was a huge, ancient stone building that held ornate religious art and the earthly remains of long-gone monarchs. The tabernacle was large enough that Jesus’ earthly form could have been inside it, holding His cross -- and it still would have looked too big to do the job. But I’ll get into more details about monarchs and monasteries in another allusion. (Teaser: the First Amendment.)
Portugal in Allusions
It has recently come to my attention that I have been silent longer than I guaranteed in my last post. To honor my promise to be back for Advent, I am making it for the... last day of Advent (more or less). I have been writing a series of posts so that I can stick them up one at a time and start stockpiling some more posts and ideas for posts. And here is your beginning:
As you know, I recently got married. And, though work took me out of town right away, the Captain* and I did get to embark on an adventure of a honeymoon, just a little delayed. We flew across the ocean to a little country called Portugal to visit a part of Europe that he had not yet seen. I had not yet seen any of Europe -- it was my first time using my brand-new passport.
I could spend the next few weeks going on and on about Portugal, but one of my goals is not to bored my 3.14 loyal readers. So instead, I will have a few posts chronicling our adventures in a series of allusions -- because we understand everything new in terms of what we know. If you ask me in real life, I will tell you stories and show you pictures… once they make it off my camera and the Captain’s phone.
*Yes, he has been pseudonymless up until this point. He is remarkably difficult to name. I hope this makes you think of the Sound of Music. When I told our DJs that we wanted to be introduced as Captain and Mrs. von Trapp, one of them took notes. The other one got it and laughed. Like Captain von Trapp, he can sing and dance. Unlike Captain von Trapp, he has no children. Like Mrs. von Trapp, I have an affinity for nuns. Unlike Mrs. von Trapp, I cannot sing or dance.
As you know, I recently got married. And, though work took me out of town right away, the Captain* and I did get to embark on an adventure of a honeymoon, just a little delayed. We flew across the ocean to a little country called Portugal to visit a part of Europe that he had not yet seen. I had not yet seen any of Europe -- it was my first time using my brand-new passport.
I could spend the next few weeks going on and on about Portugal, but one of my goals is not to bored my 3.14 loyal readers. So instead, I will have a few posts chronicling our adventures in a series of allusions -- because we understand everything new in terms of what we know. If you ask me in real life, I will tell you stories and show you pictures… once they make it off my camera and the Captain’s phone.
*Yes, he has been pseudonymless up until this point. He is remarkably difficult to name. I hope this makes you think of the Sound of Music. When I told our DJs that we wanted to be introduced as Captain and Mrs. von Trapp, one of them took notes. The other one got it and laughed. Like Captain von Trapp, he can sing and dance. Unlike Captain von Trapp, he has no children. Like Mrs. von Trapp, I have an affinity for nuns. Unlike Mrs. von Trapp, I cannot sing or dance.
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